


lettin' your worries pass you by

by HalfFizzbin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek's life is really hard, Failwolf Friday, First Kiss, GET IT, HARD, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfFizzbin/pseuds/HalfFizzbin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek fails at loving himself, and Stiles accidentally becomes his guru.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lettin' your worries pass you by

**Author's Note:**

> I bite my thumb at realism. LEAVE ME ALONE.
> 
> (Also, I tried not to hit that embarrassment squick too hard but, you know, proceed with caution!)

“Derek, I don’t care what you say, we have to— _HOLY GOD WHAT.”_

“Uhm,” Derek says. It comes out high and strained—a squeak, almost. Stiles would totally mock him for it, except that he’s currently trying to process the sight of Derek sitting in his ultra-douchey black leather armchair with his jeans unzipped and his hand  _wrapped around his cock._

“In my defense,” Stiles says, frozen in place out of sheer secondhand humiliation, “I would have knocked, but you don’t have a door.”

“Right,” Derek says, glancing over at the massive hole in the brick wall of his new loft. He looks shocky and pale, and more short of breath than Stiles has ever seen him. “The landlord said. Uh. He said they had to knock out the old sliding doors. They were stuck. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Stiles says, too loud, his voice breaking in the middle of the word. He starts backing up toward the door-hole, and Derek still hasn’t let go of his cock,  _jesus christ._ “I was gonna tell you… something about Deaton, god damnit, I don’t even remember, I’m just gonna  _go_.”

“You could have called,” Derek says petulantly, and Stiles throws up his hands with a pained noise.

“I did, oh my  _god_ , you can’t blame me for this! I’ve been calling for an  _hour,_ you freak, why didn’t you…  _ohgod_  I can’t stop looking, can you put yourself away please?!”

Derek rolls his eyes tightly and covers his lap with a blue satin throw pillow (and seriously, when did Derek get throw pillows, this whole situation is so ridiculous). “I must have missed your call,” he tells the rafters above Stiles’ head, and  _now_  his face is flushing with color again. “Sorry.”

“ _Seriously_ , Derek, there is an entire pack of Alphas still out for our blood and you  _never_ turn your phone off, why would you…” Stiles trails off, narrowing his eyes suddenly at the profuse sweat darkening the underarms of Derek’s t-shirt and beading on his forehead. Derek has an iron grip on the pillow in his lap, and his hands are actually  _shaking_  a little. The tightness in his jaw and around his eyes is alarming, even by normal uptight Derek standards, and Stiles is struck with a sudden, horrifying realization. “Were you… have you been at this for like, an entire hour?”

“Two,” Derek sighs—the most tense-sounding sigh Stiles has ever heard in his entire life, holy shit—and then he tears his eyes away from the vaulted ceiling to look Stiles right in the face. His gaze is manic, and desperate, and his frustration is so palpable that Stiles winces in sympathetic pain. “Can it—whatever it is, can it wait,” Derek says, gulping in a deep breath like his whole  _body_ hurts. He clearly needs to be alone. Stiles should definitely leave.

He takes a step closer.

“Are you…” Stiles waves a hand at the throw pillow, trying not to think about Derek’s dick—Derek’s really,  _really_  hard dick—right underneath it. “Can you not… do you usually have this problem?”

“Are we talking about this? Really?” Derek just sounds resigned; it seems like intense sexual frustration takes so much out of him that he can’t even work up the energy to boss people around. 

“Are you poisoned?” Stiles tries, because the fact that Derek hasn’t  _killed him_  yet suggests there might be something seriously wrong. “Drugged? Is there some kind of wolfsbane that causes werewolf priapism, or—”

“For fuck’s sake, it’s not your problem, Stiles, you can’t—” Derek presses down on the pillow, probably subconsciously, and hisses through his teeth at the pressure. Stiles’ knees are having trouble holding him up, all of a sudden. “It’s nothing like that. You can’t help with this.”

“Oh,  _wow_.” Stiles tracks the ever-tightening lines of Derek’s face, and he gets it. “It’s you! It’s not drugs at all! You’ve actually stressed yourself out so much that you  _can’t get off._ ”

“It’s not funny,” Derek grinds out, covering his eyes with one hand. 

“Oh, I know.” Stiles tries to keep his lips from curving up, because he really does feel bad. Some of this stress is probably directly his fault, after all; Derek’s been saving his ass  _a lot_ lately. “I’m sorry, I know. What’s it been, a week? Two?  _Longer_?”

Derek’s big, sad eyes say it all, and Stiles kind of wants to give the guy a hug.

“Okay, this is totally fixable, you’re just going about it all wrong. You look like you’re ready to spring up and decapitate someone at a moment’s notice, that’s no way to… just, at  _least_  take off your shirt.”

Stiles doesn’t actually realize what a  _completely inappropriate_  thing that is to say until he hears it come out of his mouth.

But then Derek actually  _does it,_ sinuously peels himself out of his sweat-soaked, skintight tee like he’s just been waiting for permission, and the safe, logical part of Stiles’ brain fizzles out.

“And your pants,” he adds, feeling brave because they’ve already crossed some kind of awkwardness Rubicon, how could it possibly get any worse? “Here, let me—” He takes a few steps, closing the distance between them, and drops to his knees in front of the chair. Derek’s wearing his sneakers today, and Stiles chatters casually while he unlaces them because otherwise he’ll have a fucking heart attack. “This used to happen to me, back when this whole wolf thing first started—and I fucking  _love_  jerking off, okay, it was completely tragic and I hated you all a lot.”

“We hated you right back, mostly,” Derek says, gazing down at him with a sort of dizzy, detached interest.

“Aha! Past tense, I freaking knew it, you all adore me,” Stiles crows, easing Derek out of his shoes and socks like it’s a normal thing they do all the time. Derek has nice feet, of  _course_ he does; every inch of him is flawless, apparently. “Now, you should take the jeans off, because they look horrifically uncomfortable.”

He waits for Derek to tell him to leave, and Derek doesn’t. Not even when he’s arching up off the chair a little, wriggling out of his jeans while somehow managing to keep his groin covered up by the pillow. “Better?” he prompts, and Derek makes a low assenting noise. “Good, now I’ll just, ah…”

Derek’s arm is moving, bared muscles flexing in a really obvious rhythm for all that his hand is hidden under the pillow, and Stiles breathes in sharply. 

“Do you need me to go?” He stands up, but he doesn’t leave.  _Can’t_ leave, now that Derek is moving like this in front of him, panting hard through his nose, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. His eyes are closed, which is good because Stiles is staring like a _total creep_.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Derek says, neck stiff and jaw clenched like he’s bracing for an attack. “Just go… get a soda or something… I’ll be done, ungh, in a minute…”

Stiles sighs, exasperated. “Not like that you won’t,  _oh my god,_ are you physically incapable of not torturing yourself? Just—” He moves around behind the chair, taking a few deep breaths in a row to psych himself up before he puts his hands on either side of Derek’s head, tilting it back gently. He realizes too late that the back of the chair doesn’t go high enough for Derek to rest his neck, so he improvises, letting Derek’s head fall against his stomach. “Relax a little,” he suggests, skimming his fingers over the slowly-loosening muscles of Derek’s neck, “and try not to think about how Twilight Zone this whole thing is.”

“Bizarre things like this never happen,  _aah,_ when you’re not around,” Derek accuses. He rolls his head back so that he’s nudging into Stiles’ belly a little, like a big cat. 

“May I remind you,” Stiles huffs, pressing at Derek’s temples in firm circles, “if I hadn’t shown up you’d be coming up on hour three of the world’s most painful jerkoff session. And by ‘coming,’ I don’t mean literally, because—”

“You are  _sooooooo_  obnoxious.” Derek’s breaths are all coming out as noises now, gasps and grunts and little  _whines_ , even. Stiles doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, so he just gets his fingers in Derek’s hair and holds on.

“What about you, huh,” he says, dragging his nails over Derek’s scalp a little. Judging from the groan he lets out, Derek must really  _like_  that, so Stiles does it again, slower. “You are the worst. Look, look at you. Walking around looking like you do, and pushing me into things and calling me all the time at three in the morning and talking to me like I’m a kid and then turning out to be not such a bad guy, after all, which is just fucking  _unfair_.”

“I’m not— _Stiles,”_ Derek moans quietly, and Stiles loses control of everything and grinds his own erection against the back of the chair, because  _really._ “You shouldn’t—I am, I’m not. Good.” 

“Oh my god,  _shut up,_ you’re good  _enough_ ,” Stiles says, his voice thick with arousal or emotion or both, he’s not even sure anymore. “You’re a screw-up but you’re, you’re  _trying,_ you deserve…”

Stiles doesn’t even know what makes him do it—he takes one of his hands out of Derek’s hair and runs it carefully but firmly down his exposed throat. He lets his palm stop to rest at the base of Derek’s neck, possessive and protective, and watches the last of the worried lines smooth out on his forehead.

“Come on,” Stiles says urgently, breathlessly, stroking with his thumb into the warm, sweaty hollow of Derek’s throat. “Come  _on,_ it’s okay, it’s okay—”

Derek’s free hand shoots up to hold Stiles’ hand against his chest, squeezing it in a near-painful grip. He arches up violently and shakes all over, letting out a long, loud, shuddering sound as he rolls his head to the side and buries his face in Stiles’ t-shirt.

“Wow,” Stiles says, shivering self-consciously when Derek just rests there for a moment and snuffles at him _._ He’s got  _tears_  in the corners of his eyes, and Stiles knows that can happen, that it’s involuntary, but it feels like a violation still, seeing them. “Okay, that’s… done, so, you’re welcome? And I’m just gonna. Yeah.”

The pillow got knocked off, sometime during the thrashing. Stiles can see Derek’s softening cock, pulled out over the soaked-through waistband of his stupidly-sexy boxer briefs, and he’s struck with such a profound combination of affection and  _want_ that it’s a physical struggle not to say something about it. 

He stops himself from brushing Derek’s hair back from his forehead and takes his hands off, backs up, mumbles “I’ll just call you later,” because he might be kind of a reckless moron but he’s got  _some_ self-preservation instincts left.

Except then Derek vaults over the back of the chair, irritatingly spry in the aftermath of what looked like a pretty devastating orgasm, and pushes Stiles back by his hips until he’s pressed up against the banister of Derek’s ostentatious staircase. 

“Whoa, hey, I’m sorry! You said, I thought you were cool with mmmmmph—” 

Derek’s kissing him like he’s not even  _close_ to satisfied yet, deep and slow and claiming _;_ Stiles just moans and lets himself melt into it, riding the leftover momentum from his last stupidly impulsive decision and running his hands greedily over the bare skin at Derek’s sides. His dick  _aches_ , and he sags helplessly back against the stair rail when Derek rubs against him with his thigh. 

“Thank you,” Derek says, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ cheekbone and smiling a little sardonically. “I mean, you’re definitely insane. But thanks.”

“You’re the one who told me not to leave, you weirdo, what the hell,” Stiles points out, nipping at Derek’s ear before he can talk himself out of it. 

“I like the way you smell, thought it might help having you around.” Derek nuzzles into his neck, and Stiles closes his eyes and resigns himself to finding statements like that mind-bendingly hot instead of creepy. “So that thing you had to tell me, about Deaton,” Derek says, mouthing along his jaw. “ _Was_ it urgent?”

“Um, actually—”

“If not,” Derek continues, “I was going to take you up to my room and suck you off.”

“Who the fuck is Deaton,” Stiles says, and starts tugging Derek up the stairs. 

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T KNOW
> 
> I DON'T
> 
> I HAVEN'T SLEPT
> 
> I AM SORRY

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic of) lettin' your worries pass you by](https://archiveofourown.org/works/683873) by [neverbalance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbalance/pseuds/neverbalance)




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